


Revolutionary Sweetheart

by anniesburg



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Assisted murder cover-up, Blood and Gore, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Moriarty is an asshole, Murder, One Shot Collection, Porn with some plot, Semi-graphic description of ghouls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: Gob deserves better, this is an exploration of how he gets it.





	1. Grotesques

**Author's Note:**

> i love this ghoul boy with all my heart so this fic is really just a love letter to him, giving him the happy ending he deserved.

Megaton calls to mind the uncomfortable description of a cramped metropolis that you have read in books. Polluted, like everything else, you imagine biting conflict and horrors unmatched. It’s filthy from the outside, too cold and too hot. Its hosts, living like ants in twisted towers scuttle on the surface of dingy sheet metal and drink from radiated pools. Your first impression of it is a place of squalor and hardship.

It’s a far cry from the polished perfection of a vault. But even then, you’ve seen cracks around the industrial steel. You are aware of dirt and its abundance, been taught that nothing substantial can grow outside. How terrible it must be out here, you think.

That is, until you feel the mechanical whirring of the opening gates in your bones and find your thoughts forever changed. There is innovation out here! You’re almost given whiplash by the sudden change of heart. Your head darts this way and that, you haven’t even entered the settlement yet.

If only Amata could see this, you find yourself thinking. It’s right in our backyard! And it is, it really is. You look over your shoulder, standing between an old world and a new one. You can see the cave from whence you came hiding among the holes in the rock. This has been here the whole time, you look at the robot standing a comfortable distance from you. Against your better judgement, you wave at it and offer up a bright smile.

You inhale a cloud of radiation and dust, nothing like recycled vault air. Wondering if life might grow in your lungs, carried by the wind the way it seems to be out here, you walk towards the entrance. The wings of the dingy, metal bug that is Megaton fold around you. All right, you think. Let’s find out what else they lied about.

\---

Gob polishes a glass because idle fingers are often broken. His own anxiety aside, it’s safer to be menially idle than contemplative and inactive. The fear is written in his skin now, has to be. As if he needed another reason to hate his skin.

He flinches at the sound of a broken Nuka-Cola bottle and feels the shame creep up his neck as he tosses a rag over his shoulder. He hurries to clean it, avoiding the foot of the saloon patron as it swings out to kick him. His knees scream in protest as he sweeps up the mess. He was too old for this a hundred years ago.

Most of the glass accounted for, he chucks it into the bin and takes some comfort in the clinking sound it makes. There’s still a few shards on the ground, but with the presence of shoe scuffs and dirt in large supply he hardly thinks anyone will notice.

He looks to Nova, an unwilling Dante to his Virgil and he feels the sick twist in his stomach when she blinks and looks away. She’s tired, having a rough day. Looking at him makes it rougher. She’s nice enough when she wants to be, is the nicest woman he’s met since leaving Underworld but even she won’t make a bad day worse by laying eyes on him.

Safe behind the bar (where he can better avoid any punches thrown his way), Gob returns to cleaning the glass. There’s a cough from the patron by the window, a groan from a barfly and the sound of actual buzzing flies.

Why can’t the radio just work? There’s too much unfriendly noise here.

Moriarty’s a liar and a cheat, there’s hardly enough to do around here to earn punishment for idleness the way he does. Gob watches a man in the corner with no caps make eyes at Nova. In your dreams, he wants to say. He wish he could say it. The guy would probably piss himself in surprise.

There’s a lot of things he’d like to say to these people. Now that he’s older than all of them by a century and a half (at least), he knows better words. It was hard at first, balancing the want to lash out. His spine curled against their laughter, he was warped by it. He flung his fists, hurling fireballs from his mouth and screaming fuck yous’. Gob looks at the man winking at Nova. Fuck you, he thinks. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

He asks the man if he can get him another drink. He dodges the hurled bottle.

\---

You don’t know what he is, not at first. His body is human-shaped and his veins are exposed to you. There’s a vulnerability to his rotting flesh and clouded eyes. He’s the first person you see when you step into the dingy hole-in-the-wall. It looks nothing like the vault cafeteria, the only bar you’ve ever been to.

The vault suit is a giveaway, but only to people who look at you. The sheriff descended on you like flies do fresh meat and his warm and open face pointed you in two different directions.

One led you to an atom bomb that made your palms itch. The contraption was older, older than some of the people and some of the metal. You grew up around technology, played in the darkest parts of the vault where the radroaches made their nests but even you don’t know what to do with it. The first direction sparks a promise inside you, a promise to come back and help once your father’s been found.

The second, his hand gesturing to a faded sign reading Moriarty’s Saloon. He told you that you might find answers.

The sight of a dead man moving, bringing his fist down on a dirty radio and imploring it to work shocks you. You’re amazed by him, floored but thoroughly terrified. He looks like a Halloween decoration, you’re quick to silence that thought. Nibbling on your lip, you watch a redheaded woman with eyes only slightly less cloudy try to cool his fire.

It takes a moment for you to find your footsteps but even then nobody seems to care about the sight of you. There’s awful white noise by the handfuls but you can’t seem to take your eyes off the man.

He lifts his head, sensing someone’s watching him. Your line of sight makes him flinch and causes your mouth to turn down in a frown. Do you terrify him? Really? Your boots clang against the metal and you walk closer to him. The redhead has breezed off to the far wall, leaning against it with a careless grace.

“Hello.” you offer the man. Your eyes dart over his face, taking in the clumps of brown hair that are still adhered to his skull. He doesn’t have a nose and the remaining hole makes you want to shiver. His eyes are clouded, yes, but at this close a distance you can see that they are so blue. Your quiet greeting caught him mid step-back. You want to frown again, disturbed by his skittish behaviour.

I’m more afraid of you, you want to tell him. Instead, you just smile at your own joke without saying it. You watch fear bolt across his eyes, then confusion. You’re almost happy for the mix-up, you weren’t smiling at him. But what else is there to do? Likely you would have stared until he gave you an answer. If he’s so afraid, why shouldn’t you be friendly?

Now slightly more confident, you place your hand on the counter. Try as you might, however, you can’t bring yourself to lean closer just yet. You’re still processing.

“Hey.” he responds. He takes his hands off the counter as soon as yours take up the same space. He looks different, like something from a nightmare but does he really think that his existence is somehow offensive?

“I— I’m from the vault—” you begin but your inability to find the right words to describe your situation leaves you floundering. His cloudy eyes look you up an down, a gesture that nearly sends blood rushing to your cheeks.

“You don’t say?” his sarcasm is palpable and for a moment he looks surprised he even said that. His eyes widen but before he can say a word to rectify it, you’re giggling.

You’re not sure about your reaction, not sure if it’s grief that colours your laugh but you do anyway. It’s a quiet sound, nothing like what would make the vault’s walls shake. Despite its reserved state, it seems to almost knock the poor corpse-man off his feet.

“That’s what the sheriff said. Although I think he said something about mayor, too.” you trail off. “I’m looking for my father, he would’ve come from that same direction only a little bit before me. He’s older, his hair’s gone grey. He might’ve been wearing a doctor’s coat?” 

He looks you up and down again, from the roots of your hair to the pristine hips of your vault jumpsuit. He shakes his head just a little bit.

“Sorry, smoothskin. I haven’t seen anyone who looks like that.” you blink and are almost reduced to laughter again. 

“Smoothskin?” you ask, unable to sate your curiosity. You look down at your hand on the bar. 

“Yeah, it’s what ghouls call non-ghouls, you know?” minutely, you shake your head. 

“Ghoul? Is that what you are?” you wonder if he’s annoyed by your seemingly endless questions. Instead, the look he gives you is something like relief. Relief from the drudgery? This place doesn’t look the most friendly. He takes his cues from you without your knowledge and your laughter’s inspired a confidence in him. 

“What? Like you couldn’t tell?” he gestures with a decayed hand to his face and you can’t help your smile. There’s a note of remorse to it, however, that again seems to catch him off-guard.

“I did notice, I just didn’t know there was a word for—” you lift a hand, reaching out to him and similarly gesturing. He darts back a step, almost like a scared animal. The look of hurt on your face is unmistakable and you drop your hand. “You’re still a human, though, right?” 

His face contorts into something like a sneer, you suspect it’s just a habit because after a beat it recedes. He looks at you intently, as if trying to decipher some hidden mockery in your face. He finds none.

“’Course I’m still human, smoothskin.” he replies, his eyes drawn back to your hand on the counter. “I’ve just been like this since the bombs fell.” 

“The bombs?” you ask. The wonder in your voice seems to be as unknown to him as a smile or a laugh. “The ones from the war?” he nods.

“The very same. That’d make me, oh, two hundred years old. Give or take a decade or two.” he seems to find comfort in your widened eyes. His face is easier to look at now that you’ve seen it cycle from panic to a semblance of familiarity. You like his eyes. Your smile returns, this time directly at him. 

“That’s amazing. What’s your name?” so much seems to startle him, even something as simple as that. Of all your questions, he seems the least prepared for it.

“You can call me Gob.” he says, picking his words carefully. He never tells you that’s his name. You cock your head to the side, a quizzical gesture. Your smile remains.

“Gob,” you say, as if trying it out. He moves back to where he was when you say it, like you’ve called to him. You give him your name just as you raise your hand again. You have more than learned your lesson and take your time. You reach out for him slowly, cautiously. He seems to appreciate it.

Gob looks at your hand like it’s a dangerous thing, looks up at your eyes and does his search again.

“Are you serious?” he asks. Your brow furrows. Is this no longer the right gesture? You feel embarrassment prick at your insides. It turns out that the reason is far worse than that. “You’re not gonna hit me?”

The light drains from your cloudless irises. The shock on your face is evident but your hand doesn’t fall. Really, you think, this isn’t very startling. His behaviour was a giveaway, something you didn’t want to consider to be anything more than sign of wariness towards strangers. Your reaction yet again confuses Gob.

He looks down at your outstretched hand, then back up at you.

“I—” you begin. “I hadn’t planned on it.” you all but squeak. His face contorts into something like pity and without a second thought, he shakes your hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Gob.” you say.

“You too, smoothskin.” there’s an apology in his voice that almost breaks your heart.

As if to try and rectify it, you squeeze his hand just a little. It’s a human gesture, laced with affection and hopeful solidarity that does not pass unnoticed. He lets his hand drop from yours after a moment, something like disappointment in his eyes.

“You look thirsty,” he observes. “Moriarty might know something about your dad but I don’t know where he’s gone off to. Have a seat and I’ll get you a drink. You can wait for him to show up.” he turns his back to you just for a moment, but only a moment. He seems to realize something. “Wait—”

“I have caps.” you reassure him. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out what you have. He sniffs, then nods. His smile barely touches his mouth but shines from his eyes. There’s that look of pity again, but changed by something else. Gratitude maybe.

“I’ll give you a discount.”


	2. Ghost Town

Your boots kick up scorched earth and carry it far and wide. You walk the wasteland, somewhat annoyed by the failure of haphazardly rebuilt society to reinvent public transport. 

The pistol at your side has changed, sold when you run out of ammo and upgraded to something really mean. It’s a weight but it’s a comfortable weight, one you’re willing to carry.

You travel light, you have to. The hard way found you after a night of micro-managing. A pack of feral docks wanted the radroach meat you didn’t really need. You wasted a lot of bullets that day. Food is now the least of your worries, and you’re armed to the teeth with dynamite.

Treading dirt on dirt, you stroll into Megaton. The robot outside gives you a blank look and tips its hat, wheezing out a greeting that you’re not longer amazed by. That’s the ebb and flow, you suppose. You nod to the bot, it wouldn’t do to be impolite. 

There is a sense of comfort, however, a sense of pride. You can’t go back to your hometown, to that cramped and dark totalitarian place doomed for failure. There’s a world outside of here, a world with water and your father and life in the face of death. 

You’re aware of the sniper above you. You’re aware of the watchful eye of the sheriff and townspeople. They treat you with something similar to indifference, some count down the days to the eventual demise of the lives they’ve built.

The bomb is less of a mystery to you but the tech is still deceptively old-world and complex. You know how grenades work, this one just has a little pocket of hell packed inside. It’s enough to destroy the town, that much you know to be fact.

You wade in ankle-deep irradiated water, ignoring the itch at the back of your eyeballs. Kneeling just for a moment, you pry open the wire panel barely attached to one side. One wrong move and this could all blow sky high. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you hear the voice of an asshole above your head. Lifting your eyes, you give Jericho a scathing look. 

“Easing some fears, go fuck yourself!” you shout back. After a brief moment of pause, you confidently tug on the yellow wire snaking from the top board to the bottom of it. Then the red. Jericho’s not watching any more, he’s ducked into the saloon.. Nothing happens, but that’s better than the nuke going boom. 

People watch with dust in their eyes, just as they pass by. Nobody’s bothered to touch that semi-active warhead, the fear is too close. You stand up and walk away with confidence to your stride. You’ll talk to the sheriff later and collect the reward.

\---

“She’s fucking around with the town nuke.” Jericho reports, speaks to the air the way all lonely men do. There’s barely a murmur in response from the barflies as he sinks into a dingy, velvet chair. Moriarty, unfortunately, has plenty to say.

“And about to get us all fucking killed.” he snaps, his hands balling into fists. He’s of half a mind to leave Gob alone at the counter and give the uppity, thieving bitch a piece of his addled mind. 

She must have gotten in good in his freak show, flashing caps at Nora until her eyesight turned green. Someone, likely the vault girl hacked his terminal when he was out for a smoke, left before he could notice and before he could prove it. 

Her shadow hasn’t darkened his doorstep since but the girl looks the sort to grow roots. Moriarty grumbles something else that can’t be heard around the stump of his cigarette. He flicks it at Gob, relishing the way he winces in pain. 

Nova was the one who snitched but Gob was more fun to hit. And still the world turned.

So when one-oh-one with your unclouded eyes stumbles into the saloon, it's, impossible to miss the way the object of Moriarty's disgust glows like a neon sign. It's sick, he could laugh at it, set up a booth and sell tickets for thirty caps a piece. Come on down, lads and lasses, witness genuine freak love.

His fascination is the one thing keeping him from whipping out the pistol in his belt and blowing your head off your shoulders. He watches Gob's busted face flicker towards his, away from the dream girl he's amazed by. It's the little things, moments like it that make all of this worth it. Complete control, nothing feels the same. 

You sit with a sigh at the bar, close as you can get to the resident monster. You seem unbothered by it, keeping your voice low enough to diminish interest. No one really cares enough to overhear two skinny lovebirds dance around boring topics. They'll tune in when the conversation gets colourful. 

"Carol says hi, she says she misses you." you say instead of hello. If Gob planned on saying anything matching a greeting to his favourite smoothskin, he's reduced very quickly to floundering. 

"You're kidding. Oh, wow. Underworld's kinda outta the way---" he's stopped by the wave of your hand, the little shrug in your shoulders. You look happy to have made him happy, Moriarty's wheezing laugh breaks the otherwise dreary atmosphere. You shoot him with a bullet-glare. He falls quiet. 

"Yeah, but you mentioned it." you say when the distractions out of the way. Gob seems more away of the presence of the boss. He's tighter-lipped but your elbows pressed forward onto the bar, closer to him makes that fear die a quick death.

"I didn't expect--- thanks. It's getting harder and harder to tell her I'm okay." now it's your eyes that flit to Moriarty. He knows what you're thinking, it's hard to tell veins from bruises when they're on Gob's mangled body. He has to disguise another laugh with a cough. 

"Are you okay?" you ask. The boss-man has to strain to hear you, your tone affectionate. He wonders if you have been back since running out on his hacked terminal, you talk to his slave like an old friend. Like a lover. 

But you couldn't possibly think the way Gob looks at you is any less disgusting than it actually is, right? He could rub his hands together in glee, you're not looking at him this time. Your eyes stay fixed on his freak, all warm and soft like fucking Juliet on her fucking balcony.

\---

You're aware of Moriarty, in the background of your exchange. The only thing keeping you from shooting him between the eyes is the very real threat that Jericho presents to your back. He's had it in for you for a while, it's best not to give him an excuse to commit the murder he's been so gleefully in favour of.

Instead, you shut it all out. You push it all away from this moment. The months of wondering how Gob's doing, if he's safe, if he's alive plagued you and now it's all come back to this. It's going to be very hard to leave again, you don't know how you managed it the first time. 

"I got a roof over my head, and sugar bombs. I do all right." he replies, as casual as can be. But he seems to note your emotional openness, the way that you care. He seems to appreciate it.

"I think you could do better," you begin. A thought runs through your head fast as those feral dogs sniffing out radroach meat. There's a house in Megaton sitting unused, the bomb you've just diffused could be good bargaining chip. 

It feels insane, sputtering about how he's going to move in with you when you get it. But you've trod over most of Washington and found no better place than the one that was two steps from the vault. 

You've found no one like Gob, no one funnier or sweeter. No one more in need of help. Your stomach clenches, he exhales slowly drops his eyes. You carefully move your hand from its relaxed position on the bar. Your fingers encircle his wrist, giving it a slight squeeze. Gob still flinches, but not as much as he usually might if the action were less subtle. 

"No use talking like that." he says. He sounds defeated, you couldn't pull your hand away if you tried. Moriarty's whooping cough from too many cigarettes shatters the intimate silence again. You could kill that man, you just might. He makes Gob afraid, never fails to. The loud noise pulls him from the illusion of safety you've lulled him into. 

"I'm sorry," you begin and he's the one to pull away from your hand. "really---" Gob shakes his head, his tone brightening and his voice louder. The conversation's over. 

"Don't be, smoothskin. You mean well." he says. You make one last grasp for serious discussion about his situation. Gob doesn't understand. 

"I just want you to be happy." the immediacy in your voice shocks him every time, just like when you promised you wouldn't lay a hand on him. He looks thankful, really. But he looks trapped, terrified. 

"And I'll never get used to that. Want a drink?" you're back to chatting now, it's the only option if you want to stay here. You do. You nod.

"Sure, I'm dying for a Nula Cola." you follow Gob's lead, sounding louder and less like you're hiding in plain sight.

Moriarty turns away, bored for good at the sound of friendly banter. Nova jumps as his heavy steps carry him past, his hand brought down hard on the curve of her rear to improve his suddenly downturned mood. Your stomach sinks. 

"Coming right up. I think it's our last one, too." the retreat of Moriarty seems to immerse Gob in something like a fantasy. He's playing bartender, flirting with the pretty girl who treats him right. He doesn't want to talk about his escape from this place, that'd make it real. 

"Lucky me." you summon up your best smile, content to play along. Nothing's wrong.


	3. Grace for Sale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so logically this chapter probably skips a step right into pre-est relationship but i really just wanted to write 3k of ghoul love and 1k of... other stuff. so!! enjoy. i'm marking this fic as """""complete""""" but i plan to do a few epilogues as well as a necessary build-up prequel chapter when i have to will to do so. hope you enjoy!

Your love for him comes on hot and with the visceral intensity of an impulsive decision. But like a quick choice made by rapid-fire instinct, there’s something quite euphoric about it. He doesn’t kiss like heaven, you find out, but he leaves you questioning why breathing’s so important, anyway. 

You dread coming up for air, you want to grow gills and take in irradiated oxygen from polluted water. You want it so you can keep kissing him, your back pressed gently to the dingy wall behind the bar. 

“Oh, I love you,” you whisper when that breathing thing becomes a concern again. Stupid, really. He’s yet to respond in kind but the strength of his own, unspeakable emotion is clearest in his actions. He holds you like a memory, uncertain but sweet and careful. Gob cares for you at the very least, he knows how he wants to treat you. 

You can’t tell him things he’s been taught not to believe if your lips are pressed against his, Gob knows that and it’s why he kisses you again. It feels like magma striking your skin from the inside, burning you to nothing and leaving only truth and adoration in its wake. You could die like this, you could absolutely die happy like this. 

“My place isn’t far,” you try again with less confronting words to get him to leave this terrible place. Moriarty’s watching like a hawk when he’s not out collecting, you don’t have forever. Gob knows that better than you ever will. His arms loop around your waist, he pulls you tight against his chest with a grip that’s far from feeble. 

Around you, all’s silent. Nova went to bed alone looking like Christmas came early. The patrons buzzed out of the bar, more bloatfly than human as they returned to their respective homes. You have another home, a couple walls and a roof that makes a tinny whistling sound when the wind blows too hard. It’s rickety, welded together by heat and the will to survive. 

Just like him, the man kissing you. It’s all very perfect. 

You’ll never go back to the vault with its sturdy claustrophobia. It’s been cast off, shaken of dust and found wanting. Your path is moth-eaten, you were born out here of baked dirt and filth and singing pain. It’s where you belong in a general sense. 

Much more specially, you belong with Gob. The way he hugs you is two-hundred years old, you feel like the luckiest woman alive on the cover of an old-world magazine. You break away again, kissing his mangled cheek and breathing hard against him. 

“I want to stay here, smoothskin,” he tells you. He sounds raspy and wistful. “I’ve never had someone---” 

You look at the hazy blue of his eyes, you like them so much. He made a sound like he was dying when you told him so, it nearly broke him. The back of your hand touches his cheek in near-slow-motion, it has to be like that. It’s the only way he won’t flinch and you can’t bring yourself to put more strain on his heart. He’s never had someone to take to bed? Maybe. It could just be he’s never had someone, or hasn’t for a really long time. You know the feeling. 

Butch doesn’t count, you decided. Butch really doesn’t count. 

You hold him back, making sure that if the shaking starts he doesn’t have to be alone. 

“We’ll stay, then,” you say, “whatever makes you happiest.” 

He’s really not used to that, he tries to dip his head and hide his line of sight. Gob’s been alive long enough to deserve the respect of having a choice. But he’s still so uncomfortable when you give it to him. 

“Come on,” you coax, “you gotta be dead on your feet,” and his nod surprises you. So often he’s willing to write off his own pain as inconsequential, as normal. But now he’s all tough and stiff with you there to tell him enough’s enough. You give him that extra push, he pulls away from you with a strong hand wrapped around your wrist. You’re guided away from the bar. 

It’s a clumsy affair, letting him lead when he’s so committed to touching you whenever he’s able. He turns too often, like he wants to remember the act of climbing the stairs with you in tow. It’s sweet, you smile at him in earnest and follow him. 

The short path across the metal landing at the top of the steps seems insufferably long with the way he stops to kiss you. He’s addicted, eager to claim the touch that he knows won’t hurt him. You close your eyes, you let him take because it’s what he’s due. He deserves this and yet he still doesn’t consider it something owed. 

It’s what he wants. You'd like to encourage that wanting. 

“Gob---” he puts his hands just above your chest, they rest on your collarbone. “just wait a second---” you’re breathing heavy, tugging him to the room at the end of the hall that Moriarty charges him to sleep in. It’s cruel, you know it. But for a change he can choose to do what he wishes in here. You’re not buying him, that means something. 

The few feet left to his bedroom’s sprinted, you rush at the entrance and he’s right behind you. His lips to your neck, you slam the door shut and hear the rattle. The whole building could fall down around you at any moment, it makes you tug the zipper on your jacket down. 

You tug it off, throwing it to the side and letting Gob have another kiss. 

“What’s a tunnel snake?” he asks when his mouth leaves yours. You open your eyes, looking to the crumpled leather on the floor. 

“A gang from the vault,” you’ll never get bored of his smile. He hugs you to his chest again, the third time tonight. 

“Sounds real tough,” he says. You giggle in his ear. 

“Oh yeah, the toughest. I should tell you about ‘em---” you’re cut off not by the sound of Gob’s voice but by the look in his eye. He’s prone to periods of intense wonder, you understand. You’re in awe of him, too. “some other time. Kiss me.” 

No need to tell him again. He does, he bites at your lower lip like he remembers how to do this. Two hundred years hasn’t cramped his style. 

You start work instead on the zipper of your vault suit, dragging it down the same way you did with your jacket. A hand covers yours, stopping you. 

“You don’t have to---” Gob sounds different, nervous, agitated. You turn your eyes to his, trying to puzzle out what he means. “I don’t want you to--- you know--- because I don’t want to---” 

“Have sex?” you ask and he shakes his head firmly. 

“No, wow, no. I want that. I just meant--- you know, takin’ clothes off---” it’s a halted admission, one you cherish for its honesty. Slowly, you nod and continue to slide the zipper down your front. 

“Okay, I get it. You don’t have to take anything off that you don’t want to. But I---” you smile at him, he looks too worried for what the two of you are going to do. “I want to. Help me?”

He seizes the little piece of metal and gives a dramatic tug, all the way down to your stomach. You reach for the pip-boy at your wrist, tugging at the straps and setting it on top of one of the only piece of furniture in the dingy room. The filing cabinet juts out from the windowless wall almost offensively, sitting across from the single bed and side table. Your bag’s set on the floor next to it with a little more care. 

You’re distracted from practical undressing by the feeling of Gob’s hand on your chest, pushing one half of the vault suit material down your shoulder. He touches your breast over your sports bra almost experimentally, gripping you gently as if he’s afraid to cause any pain. 

While your moan may sound like hollow encouragement, there’s a newness to the sensation that rivals a fresh experience. Being loved this way, even if he can’t bring himself to say it yet, is electric. It’s ecstatic. Your eyes close, head tilting back against the wall. 

You’re content to let him explore, to let him dip his head and kiss the skin that’s been wrongfully hidden from him. Gob lets himself be greedy for only a minute before his eyes dart up to yours with a look of apology. You nod almost languidly. 

“Keep going,” you mumble. “please.” that lights a fire under him, Gob’s lips press to your neck with a new fire. 

As much as you want to give, he doesn’t trust as easily. To push him off and demand to return what he’s willing to impart would risk closing off this aspect of his personality forever. You open your eyes, peering through the unlit room to the single bed in the corner before turning your head and kissing his temple.

Your arms fold around him perfectly, their grip as strong as anything when Gob introduces teeth to the mix. He’s done this before, he absolutely has. You groan his name, softer this time, remembering that the two of you aren’t alone yet. 

It’s comfortably dim in here, light shining through under the door crack. It gives you enough illumination not to trip, not to stumble in the dark trying to find purchase. But, largely, you begin to know him and yourself by touch. 

You get sick of your bra real quick and it joins your jacket, revealing the soft curve of your breast for Gob to latch his mouth onto. He’s trying to leave marks, you realize with a fervent heat pooling between your legs. This is an act of love and reclamation. For a brief second you wonder what he’s reclaiming you from, then it hits you. He’s so sweet, sometimes you forget that he hates every second spent here. 

Gob takes you back from the vault, from the sterile nature of it. He takes you back from Butch, although you’ve never said his name out loud since you left home. He takes you back from radiation and compression and starvation, your imperfect lineage. He doesn’t mean to, but he thrusts the reality of your prior emptiness into the light and then softens the blow with pitch and his lips. 

Your hands drop to his hips and its an act of solidarity. Not exactly a picturesque deflowering, neither of you are virginal and in need of salvation. But happiness? Hope? Gentleness? You could do with a little extra of that. 

Gob kisses between your breasts, he’s almost on his knees and you’re forced to relocate your hands to his shoulders. Your fingers brush his shirt, pulling a little and he looks up. 

“Baby, your joints---” you whisper and you watch him glow. Part of you has to wonder if anyone’s ever care enough about his knees or his elbows to try and spare them any strain. He stands up, slowly. You tilt your head and kiss him.

Be good to yourself, you want to tell him. He won’t be, that’s the essence of old habits. So you see fit to be good to Gob instead, pushing away from the wall with your vault suit hanging off your hips. You don’t look down as you kick your feet out of your steel-toed boots and proceed to back him up across the room. 

His lower thighs hit the edge of the bed with a careful, settling sound. You give him enough time to toe out of his own, unlaced army boots before you’re urging him to sit down. 

“Is the bed all right, ‘cause if it’s not---” he starts asking, there’s hands on your soft hips, pushing underneath the fabric as if coaxing it to reveal its secrets. He can’t see you nod again, but he can hear the way you shush him. 

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “it’s a bed, it’s perfect,” and it’s true. It’s narrow but you’ll think of some way to make it accommodate two. “lie down.” 

He hesitates, but you hear a creak and the shape against the dark that belongs to him does as you ask. His shoulders hit the mattress with a low thud. 

Undoing your utility belt, you set your gun on the side table. 

You kiss your vault suit goodbye, good riddance. It’s a pile on the floor soon enough, navy blue in this light instead of garish--- a target. Panties are next, there’s no need for them, now. You feel safe in these four walls, camouflaged against the rusty metal and at home among its monsters. 

"Tell me if it’s too much, okay?” you tell Gob as you put your right knee on the bed, outside of his. Your other is swung over the tops of his thighs, right below his pelvis. He lets out a grunt, trying to reach you as you make yourself comfortable. 

You follow your own advice, hardly attacking his belt like a woman possessed. Instead, your fingers begin to pull the hem of his t-shirt up. You don’t reveal anything that he doesn’t want seen, you simply push your hands underneath. Touching muscle and warm skin is something you’re used to, the idea that anything belonging to him could be ugly is laughable. 

Familiarity with no-touch zones has prepared you somewhat for this experience. You stay away from his hair, from his neck. Instead, you trace your fingers up his stomach and along his arms. Leaning in for kisses is a safe way to occupy the time. When he’s pliant and gentle underneath you, you take the operation south. 

Radiation and wear’s turned his leather belt as rigid as plastic. You’re careful undoing it, clothing’s hard to come by and Moriarty’s likely sold two years of hard labour for this. The button’s next, slowly undone along with the zipper. 

You feel a hand on your wrist in the dark, strong but soft in its grip. 

“Just--- don’t--- I’m not---” he’s struggling, floundering. You lean forward and kiss his sternum through the fabric of his shirt. 

“I’m not expecting anything,” you tell him as softly as you can. “you know I think you’re gorgeous,” and he does. You hear a muffled noise of affirmation but he doesn’t quite let you go, he just relocates his grip to your thighs. 

Moving at a snail’s pace doesn’t bother you, it’s respected as you do your best to keep him comfortably concealed. One day, you think, you’ll see him exactly how he is. For now, you’re content to touch and tease and feel what he’s allowed you to feel. 

His cock is thick, short and hard in a way that must be getting painful. You let out an appreciatory gasp that turns him death-quiet. It’s difficult to see in the dim light but he feels ready. 

Your hand makes a loose fist around him, careful not to catch your nails on any sensitive flesh. Maybe it’s better to ease both him and yourself into the sensation of intimate touch. 

“Is that good?” you ask. Too many times the question’s been rhetorical, not now. Now it’s air-light and concerned around the edges, you hope the answer is yes. His response is instantaneous, another grunt escaping him. His heart starts beating afresh. 

“Yes,” he finally says. You wonder if he can hear the smile in your voice. 

“More?” another, more strangled affirmation from Gob. You take that as gospel, working your palm up and down his length with a steady pace. 

Pushing your way up his thighs is easy enough without hurting him, you move so he doesn’t have to reach as far. His cock presses against your stomach and his hands immediately seek out your inner thighs. 

“Ain’t fair that you’re having all the fun, smoothskin,” he tells you and you’re inclined to agree. You shift your weight, rising onto your knees. You haven’t lived for two hundred years, who gives a fuck if your parts start to ache. 

He understands the access he’s given, pushing his fingers between your thighs and feeling. Gob’s careful as you, making you shiver. His noise of content is clearly understood as you push your hips down towards his searching hand. Don’t worry, you want to tell him but can’t risk the embarrassment, you turn me on. 

Gob’s middle finger circles your clit, he probably did this as recently as Underworld. The thought makes your heart soar a little, even if it was fifteen years ago. Numb jealousy has no place here. Once, he was happy. Once, he explored how a woman’s body worked. You don’t have to teach him a thing. 

Vocal encouragement spurs him on yet again, prompting him to experimentally sink a finger inside you. Your hand around his cock falters, a little lost in the sensation before his hips buck and you’re reminded of your role. 

The noises from both of you rise in volume, less inhibited by the barrier of clothing and uncertain touches. He’s emboldened by your sounds, pushing another finger in you and matching the pace at which you stroke him. 

Gob’s head hits the back of the mattress, you can hear it. And now you can almost see it. Your eyes have adjusted, the shapes more defined in the half-light.

“Are you ready?” you gasp, breathless as if you’ve run a marathon. 

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” he replies and you can certainly hear the pleasure in his voice. “get a move on, I’m not gettin’ any younger.” 

There’s a laugh, full-bodied and warm from you as you shift forward. His hand withdraws and ---oh, dear--- you watch him put his fingers in his mouth. But he’s growing impatient, thank goodness. You like the impatience, you like the way love lets you see the real him. 

You take him in a single motion, determined to blow his mind. It works. His head falls back again, hands numbly gripping at your thighs, your hips. Anywhere that can be reached is fair game and he holds you tight. 

The necessary slow start is frustrating for both of you, but Gob’s as simultaneously delicate as he is hearty. What shocks you, however, is his willingness to make you forget that. He pushes up, pushes hard with his hips and nearly sends you falling forward. You brace your hands on his chest as you recover, slowly easing yourself into a pace that feels real without being break-neck. 

Volume’s the biggest non-issue you’ve ever experienced. He feels good, he fills you how you need and you let him know through gasps and curses. The sound of his name falls on his ears like a song from his radio. So wrapped up are you in pleasure that you don’t notice the sudden, obtrusive light. Or the shadow that cuts it. 

It’s not until there’s a third voice, devastatingly high and uncomfortable slicing the thick atmosphere that you realize what’s happening.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the outlander---” you toss your hair, looking to the now-open door with a silent gasp. Your mouth falls open. 

Moriarty looks like he’s got the devil on his payroll, standing in the doorway with a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He blows smoke and you instinctively reach to cover your bare chest. 

The light burns your eyes, pricks at them like needles. You lift an arm to block it out. 

“Leave.” you tell him, your eyes drop momentarily to Gob. He’s covered his hands with his face, his chest is heaving. 

“Not so fast, lassie. I’ve never been one to put a damper on a good time but you and I need to be discussin’ payment.” your stomach lurches. 

“P-Payment?” you can’t help the way you stutter. 

“For the fuck, o’ course. You’re straddling my property.” you blink and narrowly avoid asking Moriarty to repeat himself. You feel sick, can’t even imagine how Gob’s insides must be twisting. The rage that’s been building for too, too long in your chest comes to a head before the deranged man in the doorway can say another word. 

You grab your gun on the side table. Bang. Moriarity’s dead. 

Gob makes a noise like a whimper from underneath you and he drags his hands away from his face. There’s a body cooling in the hallway, now. His boss’ body. His eyes widen and he looks back to you. 

“What’d you have to go and do that for?” he sounds lost, not hurt or afraid, just lost. Your hands are shaking, you put down the gun. Scrambling away from him, your back hits the metal foot of the bed. 

“I’m sorry--- I’m---” you’re struggling to understand what just happened, you wrap your arms around yourself. 

Gob’s stuffing himself back into his pants, zipping up and standing with a look of shock that happens to edge near the end into joy. Wait, you think. Joy? 

It’s like a dawning realization, the rising of the sun. But there’s still fear there, fear that’s come with the bullets as he sits back down again. His knees look like they’re inches from giving out. 

“Gob, I---” you reach out for him, your fingers brush his shoulders. He grabs your hand, pulling you nearer without a second thought. 

“You’re gonna be on the hit list of every small-time crook in Megaton, smoothskin,” he tells you and you nod. 

“It’s my fault, I did it. I’ll face any consequences alone---” he cuts you off with a hard look in his blue eyes. 

“Fuck that, put your clothes on.” you’re startled for a moment, it’s your turn to be moved to silence. But Gob snaps out of the horror a little easier than you, he’s making a grab for your vault suit and jacket quicker than you’re able to process. 

Moriarty’s dead, Gob’s dealing with the implications of it. You shot him point blank, admittedly after a very serious provocation. You’re too stunned to remember the ache between your legs, the pleasure cut short but there’s no discussing it. 

Gob tugs on his work boots and opens the filing cabinet. There’s another, single, white shirt sitting sadly at the bottom of the second drawer, he grabs it and moves out into the hallway while you dress. 

He’s careful, so careful when wrapping up Moriarty’s head. You barely notice the way he shakes from fear, like he expects the man to pop up with a giggle and box his ears. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

But there’s no life, no breath in the old man. Only blood and brain matter leaking from the substantially large exit wound at the back of his skull. The sound from the gun was loud enough, you wonder where the people are. 

And then your answer arrives, Nova opens her door looking strung-out and bored. She likely debated with herself for a long time before deciding it was worth getting out of bed. 

“What the hell---” she sees Moriarty’s body, Gob leaning over him and you rushing for the door. You’re tucking the gun into your belt. Nova lets out a half-strangled noise.

“It’s not what you think---” you start. But it is. Her eyes turn to you. 

“I didn’t see anything.” her voice is like ice, she slams her bedroom door. You could cry, either from realization or thanks. Instead, you lean against the doorframe. 

“I’ll carry him.” you say to Gob, who’s picking up the top half of the body. 

“Get the legs,” he tells you. “we’ll carry him.” as much as you want to argue that a we didn’t kill him in the first place, you listen to orders. It’s not as if Gob has the time to enjoy it. 

He’s off like he’s disposed of a body before, probably has. You follow him down the stairs that he so gleefully tugged you up and heads out the back door. 

It’s quiet out, all stars and still night. Everyone’s still rousing themselves if they heard the gunshot. Surprisingly, Gob begins to lead you towards the men’s restroom. The door opens with a creak. 

“Put him in the bathtub,” Gob mutters and with his help you set him down. He’s rushing for the locket against the wall, fumbling for a key in his pocket. When it’s open, you peer around his shoulder. 

“Is that lye?” you ask. Gob looks at you. 

“Ain’t my first rodeo,” his head turns to the body in the tub. “might be the last, though.”

You shiver despite the warmness of the night. Your arms fold over your chest. Gob’s eyes soften and he starts away from the locker.

“You should go, smoothskin,” he tells you.

“But---” you start, “what if you’re caught? will they think you did it?” he shrugs.

“Probably not, I’ll tell ‘em you did it--- if I get caught. Hasn’t happened before.” the numbness starts to creep up on you. But you did, you did kill Moriarty. “They’ll forget about it, the good people, at least.” Gob promises. “Give it a week.” 

You square your shoulders. You want to ask him to come with you so bad. Maybe, you wonder, maybe he just hasn’t realized that he can’t. But the look in his eye says it all as he grips your shoulders. He pulls you in for a hug that’ll last for a little while until this blows over. And it will blow over with the ones who wanted Moriarty dead, too. 

The bad guys? You have enough bullets for every forehead in the Wasteland. 

You shudder in Gob’s arms, wrapping them around his middle. 

“I’ll come back,” you say. You don’t really need to, he knows. “and then we can---” he cuts you off by pulling away enough to look at you. 

“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t indicate a preference with his voice as to what you can get up to together when you return. For the first time you’ve known him, however, he’s acknowledging that he has a preference. His right to choose is blooming in front of you. 

And then his arms leave you, not for good but for now. You give him a smile and you go. 


End file.
